


Burn This City Down For You

by Jezunya



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Homophobia, Laketown, M/M, POV Alternating, Present Tense, but there are mentions & implications so, heed the tags, implied pedophelia, implied rape, nothing bad even comes close to happening, the master of laketown is a horrible person in basically every way it is possible to be, you fucked up Thorin you fucked up bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4333263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezunya/pseuds/Jezunya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Thorin’s mouth is talking without his permission. That happens sometimes, though he usually refuses to feel anything about it at all, least of all shame or embarrassment or regret, since normally the things that come out of it are entirely true and entirely deserved.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Now might not be one of those times, though.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>'I can assure you,' he’d started, and his mouth goes on, “that there is nothing at all childlike about my husband.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been sitting in my brain for several months, basically fully formed, and then entire paragraphs started to string themselves together in the wee hours this morning when I was up with painsomnia, so here it is. This is going to be a relatively short one, just some Fake Relationship Hyjinks. Enjoy :)
> 
> (Spellchecked but unbetad, so please let me know if you spot any errors, typos, missing words, etc!)

_'Scuse me, have I spoke too soon?_  
_My eyes have always_  
_Followed you around the room_  
_'Cause you’re the only_  
_God that I will ever need_  
_I'm holding on and_  
_Waiting for the moment to find me…_

“If I Had a Gun” by Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds

 

It happens entirely by accident. That much Thorin can honestly say.

Well, mostly by accident.

No one would ever be able to say that Thorin Oakenshield does not care for his own, that he would not fight tooth and nail to protect any member of his company from any type of threat, real or perceived. The fact that that sentiment extends to the halfling as well these days would surprise precisely zero people, which ought to be explanation enough for Thorin’s behavior at the Master of Laketown’s high table that night.

This is meant to be a celebration of their impending wealth, a grand feast the likes of which the town has quite obviously never seen in this generation of humans. The idea of these people claiming any part in his grandfather’s treasure does rankle on some level, when they have sat here for nearly two centuries, well within reach yet never once lifting a finger to so much as attempt to reclaim the mountain or drive away the beast that they themselves had failed to slay on that fateful day. Still, it is the first hot meal his company has tasted in weeks, the first time in far too long that they’ll sleep in beds with roofs and walls about them. It’s also far better than being shut up in the town’s jail, feeble though the humans’ wooden architecture may be and unlikely to be able to hold a determined dwarf for more than a few hours. They’d have had no weapons with which to face the terror of the mountain, no armor or food or fresh water, and likely a force of angry humans snapping at their heels along with the requisite orcs and elves, had Thorin not been able to convince the townspeople – and more importantly their Master – to support this venture.

The convincing had had very little to do with him, though, if he’s honest. It had all, of course, actually come down to the voice of one precocious little hobbit.

Thorin’s eyes follow Bilbo as he moves around the room, his chest and face warm with something more than the ale slicking down his throat, the well-charred meat in his belly. The halfling shoots him a smile as he passes near the small raised dais on which the Master’s table sits, where Thorin has been forced to endure the company of the odious man and his equally loathsome servant. The others, his nephews, his kin, his most loyal companions, are free to join in the more boisterous feasting in the long, low room, drinking their fill and singing raucously and for once happy. Bilbo carries an armful of brimming tankards before him, darting between human legs and handing fresh cups out to his dwarves, laughing along with the jokes and songs and barely resisting Kíli’s pull on his arm to join in the dancing that’s begun over on an open patch of floor.

The Master is speaking, has been speaking almost nonstop the entire evening, and Thorin takes another long swallow from his tankard, glad for the alcohol dulling his senses and for the helpful serving woman who comes by to refill his cup every time he sets it down. Something changes in the Master’s tone then, catching Thorin’s attention, pulling him back from regarding the crowd and his company and the sole hobbit among them.

“My, my,” the man muses, and when Thorin turns he finds the man’s eyes on the celebrants just as his own had been. He’s mostly ignored the man so far, offering what little stilted, polite conversation he can, grunting responses to questions he doesn’t care to answer, smiling grimly at jokes that are entirely without humor or taste. Focusing on the food and the ale and how very much his company needs this reprieve. The Laketown Master is an eel, a slug, a parasite sucking the life from the very people he is meant to oversee, to care for and rule and protect. It is not an uncommon thing amongst humans, as Thorin’s many years of existing in their midst can attest, but it is still a disgruntling, disgusting thing to witness at such close quarters. It is not the way dwarves conduct themselves, whether in times of plenty or in want, and to be placed so firmly beside such a corrupt leader offends on a deep, moral level, not unlike the offense of elves claiming ownership of ancient roads that were carved and paved by his ancestors’ hands, or of orcs treading the sacred paths of his people’s many lost kingdoms.

Still. Beds, food, weapons. A little rest and merriment before they face the dragon. It doesn’t mean Thorin has to be friendly with the man, though.

The Master’s gaze has sharpened, though, no longer dim and watery and self-congratulatory but now fixed on one particular body in the press of the feast, now hungry, seeking, like a hound with a scent. “My, my, my,” he breathes again, and Thorin feels something in his stomach twist and growl and ready itself to roar as he follows the human’s eyes to Bilbo as he laughs and expertly defends his plate of food from several sets of teasing dwarven hands. “He is quite comely, that little one, is he not?” the Master says then, looking to Thorin with a poisonous smile, looking for agreement, commiseration, conspiracy. At his shoulder, the manservant, Alfrid, mirrors the expression, looking like nothing so much as a goblin reveling in its catch. The thing in Thorin’s stomach bristles and growls all the louder, shaking his bones and his teeth and ringing in his ears. “Why, I quite thought he was a child when I first laid eyes on him,” the Master continues, and laughs, turning to leer out at the room again. To leer at Bilbo again. “Certainly not a dwarf with that bare little face and… _soft_ physique…”

“I can assure you,” Thorin bites out, voice low and firm, though he has no idea where that sentence is meant to lead, let alone how it will end, and this is when the accident happens. It is an accident, in no way Thorin’s fault, a result of drink loosening his tongue and that protective streak wider than an entire mountain range pulsing bright and hot and angry at the Master’s implication and the hours and hours and _hours_ he has already been forced to sit through listening to this foul human wheeze and simper and laugh over a legacy he has no right to. And now _this_.

Thorin’s mouth is talking without his permission. That happens sometimes, though he usually refuses to feel anything about it at all, least of all shame or embarrassment or regret, since normally the things that come out of it are entirely true and entirely deserved.

Now might not be one of those times, though.

 _'I can assure you,'_ he’d started, and his mouth goes on, “that there is nothing at all _childlike_ about my husband.”

The two humans still, the Master turning to regard him with brows raised and eyes blinking wide in surprise, while the manservant’s expression has gone sour and angry, suspicious. “Indeed?” the Master finally murmurs, not quite a question, and Thorin grunts, reaching for the hunk of venison on his plate once more.

Some part of him is panicking, wondering what in Mahal’s flaming beard he’s just done, while another part thanks the seven stars that none of his kin were near enough to overhear – and yet another is simply satisfied to have the matter settled, and without Bilbo ever having to know of it, of the threat he’s headed off, the very thought turning Thorin’s stomach, the idea of this man, this human, this _disgusting_ —

“If he’s your spouse,” Alfrid’s voice breaks through Thorin’s thoughts, sneering and suspicious and at least as oily as his master. “Excuse me, sire,” the manservant pauses to say, glancing down at the Master before turning his glare on Thorin again, “but if the little one’s your… your _husband_ ,” and that word is dripping with revulsion, spat like a curse, like something rotting and abhorrent, “if he’s the spouse of the _king of carven stone_ , well then, why’s he out there carousing with the common rabble instead of sittin’ here proper-like?”

Thorin feels his teeth clench slightly but otherwise doesn’t allow himself any outward show of his cresting panic. He didn’t think this through. Not one bit. He let his mouth go on talking without consulting his brain, without consulting _anyone_ , and a lifetime of disasters just like this really should have taught him by now exactly what to expect when he lets that happen. In for a pebble, in for a landslide, though. Nothing he can do to stop the cascade now. He finishes chewing, swallows, and reaches to take a slow, calm drink of his ale before finally looking over at the humans once more. “Bilbo considers it his personal responsibility to see to the morale of our people,” he says, and just then a well-timed cheer goes up from his company as the hobbit in question appears with another round of ale for them all. “We have journeyed long,” Thorin continues, smiling slightly as he watches his people and their hobbit, “and I would not pull him away when it brings him such joy to see them happy again.”

“Mm, yes, quite,” the Master says after a few moments of silence at their table – across the room, Bilbo cheers and claps with the rest as Bofur climbs atop a table and begins the first verse of The Man in the Moon. “I suppose someone has to look after the common folk, after all,” the man sniffs, turning back to his own heaping plate. “Goodness knows they’re quite hopeless left to their own devices. They need strong leadership to keep them out of trouble,” he finishes with a firm nod, and from his shoulder Alfrid murmurs a hearty, “True enough, sire, true enough!”

Thorin resists the urge to roll his eyes, swallows more ale rather than demand what this man knows of leadership, what he has ever done for his people but steal from them, sitting atop a little hill of wealth while everyone around him starves. He has never worked, never scrimped and saved and toiled in the lowliest tasks just to see bread in his people’s mouths, shelter over their heads. He doesn’t say any of this, and the ale is growing bitter and stale on his tongue.

“I must say, though,” the Master speaks then, drawing Thorin from his thoughts once more, “it does seem strange, unnatural really, how some races will allow two males to wed.”

“Quite unnatural, sire,” Alfrid agrees before Thorin can even begin to form a reply. “Against the natural way of things, it is.”

It’s not that Thorin’s never encountered such sentiments before. He has, too many times to count, while working amongst humans, laboring in their smithies and hawking good dwarven wares for cheap in the streets of their towns. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. It’s not, really. Still, on the heels of _that_ … “I understand most humans do not approve of such unions,” Thorin acknowledges, pushing his plate away and preparing to stand. A vast understatement, to be sure. The humans’ _disapproval_ had oft gone so far as to ostracize or even imprison their own, to chase dwarven caravans from their midst with pitchforks and hatchets when they discovered their same-sex couples. “Dwarves don’t much care what _adults_ choose to engage in together, you see. Of course,” he continues, pushing to his feet, “amongst my people, certain _other_ proclivities are punishable by death, so I suppose we’ll just have to chalk it all up to insurmountable cultural differences.” Thorin knows his smile is full of axe blades and swords and blood when he looks at the Master again, and the man flinches away from it very satisfyingly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should go see how my _husband_ is faring.”

He turns and marches away without waiting for a reply, fists clenched at his sides and boots heavy on the creaking floorboards as he carves a path through the crowd, humans nearly jumping out of the way after a single look at his face.

Bilbo smiles brightly up at him when Thorin comes to stand beside him, the hobbit’s merriment doing wonders for his dark mood, though his brows do rise questioningly at the stormcloud that must be apparent on Thorin’s face. Thorin shakes his head slightly, gladly accepting a fresh mug of ale and raising his voice to join the chorus of his kinsmen, and Bilbo doesn’t ask. He doesn’t leave the hobbit’s side until he sees the Master and his manservant both finally retire for the evening some time later, doesn’t allow himself to relax until he’s sure the danger is well and truly past.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so blown away by the response this fic has gotten! Thank you everyone who read, left kudos, commented, or subscribed! The Hobbit fandom truly is an amazing place... <3
> 
> This chapter got cut in half from what it was originally supposed to be, because it was getting loooong and I wanted to post something already, which also means, yes, four chapters now. I'm sincerely hoping it doesn't expand any further than that, buuuuut who knows. Certainly not me. Anyway, enjoy!

Bilbo is drunk. Quite pleasantly drunk, warm and tipsy and a little hazy as he makes his way upstairs to the row of rooms allotted to the company for the night. The humans’ ale is relatively weak, but flavorful, and Bilbo has drunk enough to make any hobbit proud. Certainly enough to make his dwarves pound him on the back and cheer his good health when he’d successfully drunk Bofur under the table. The next challenger in line had been Dwalin, but Bilbo had wisely cut off the competition there and then, leaving the tall bald dwarf to duke it out with Bombur for the title of Greatest Drunk In All The Land. Bilbo knows his own limits, knows that he’s currently floating in the purely enjoyable stage of drunkenness with few negative consequences, while much more would likely push him over into a dreadful hangover the next morning.

He stumbles just a little coming out at the top of the stairwell but catches himself on the wall that’s helpfully placed itself just within reach. Righting himself, he looks up and smiles reassuringly at the servant woman a few yards away whom he’s startled, if the way she’s clutching her basket of bed linens is anything to go by. “Pardon me,” he says, his voice coming out only a tiny bit bleary and slurred. “Could you possibly direct me to the proper sleeping quarters? I’ve not been up here before, but I was informed there had been some rooms set aside…”

The woman blinks down at him, then nods stiffly with a murmured, “This way, m’lord,” and turns to shuffle further down the dim hallway.

“Oh, there is absolutely no need for such formalities,” Bilbo hums, bobbing along behind her down the hall. The woman doesn’t say anything in reply.

Most of the company are still downstairs in the banquet hall, carrying on with the remaining fishermen and finishing off what food and drink there is still to be had, so there ought to be plenty of empty beds to choose from. Only the few sensible amongst them – Dori, Balin, Óin, Thorin – have retired already, and Bilbo has to snort and shake his head at himself as he wonders when _Thorin_ moved into the ‘sensible’ column in his mind. Stubborn, brooding, suicidally honorable, now those are all things that might describe Thorin Oakenshield. _But also caring,_ Bilbo supposes idly as the servant leads him past several doors. Yes, caring, in a gruff sort of way. Protective to a fault, usually to his own detriment. The silly dwarf.

 _Handsome too_ , a voice that sounds distinctly drunk pipes up in the back of Bilbo’s mind, and he stifles a giggle as the servant woman turns to indicate the third door on the left with one hand, her basket balanced on her opposite hip. “Here you are, m’lord.”

“Thank you so much for your help,” he beams up at her, and the woman’s expression seems to soften a little.

“Thank you, m’lord.”

“Really, now, that’s not— Oh bother, never mind. Have a good night,” Bilbo smiles and reaches up, up, up for the door handle.

“And you,” she replies, then adds, softer, “the both of you.”

Bilbo pauses, glancing back at her, but she’s already turned to get back to her work away down the corridor. The both of him, really! Dwarves and hobbits weren’t the only ones sampling the ale tonight, if even the servants are seeing double. He chuckles to himself, shaking his head, and steps into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

And then promptly turns right back around, hands scrabbling for the blasted doorknob on the blasted tall door, oh bother and confusticate, it might as well be on the _ceiling_ from here, why oh _why_ are humans so ridiculously _tall?!_

He’s just got his fingers round the handle and pulled the door open a hair when a thick, dwarven hand appears right next to his head, palm flat against the wood, slamming it closed once more.

“You can’t go out there,” Thorin growls at the back of his head, easily holding the door closed with just one hand, despite Bilbo’s yanking.

“Well, I can’t very well stay in here!” he retorts, giving up on the door and spinning around to glare up at the dwarf king. Except that that is a truly terrible decision, because Bilbo has somehow already managed to forget the sight that had greeted him when he’d stepped into the room: Thorin, sat on the edge of the overly large bed, combing out his hair as he readied himself for sleep, wearing absolutely nothing at all but his trousers.

There is quite a lot of bare dwarf chest right at his eyelevel just now – well, bare of clothes, but not of hair, or, good Green Lady, _tattoos_ , thick black lines of knotwork crisscrossing pale flesh and muscle under thick black chest hair – _which he is not looking at_. He knows the dwarves quite favor tattoos, more even than their battle scars, knows from bathing along the road that all in the company have at least _some_ , but he’s never seen Thorin’s up close like this, never been able to really _look_ at them, near enough that he could reach out and touch, trace the patterns with his fingers—

Desperately, Bilbo balls his hands into fists and tucks them behind his back, forcing himself to look up at Thorin’s face, _only_ his face – a face that is currently frowning down at him as if _Bilbo_ is the one being absurd, when he’s not the one walking around all— all— all shirtless and muscular and looking like _that!_

“I didn’t mean to come in here,” he blurts, matching Thorin’s frown with a glare of his own.

“I gathered as much.”

“I asked a maid for directions and she led me here and this is _not my fault._ ”

Thorin growls, or sighs, or, or something in between those two, and rubs his free hand across his eyes – the one _not_ holding the door closed and trapping Bilbo in here and leaning over him while his chest is all bare and the muscles in his arm and shoulder are all bulging and _also_ covered in tattoos and really _nothing about this is fair._ Thorin scrubs at his eyes, then his forehead, then runs his fingers back through his hair, which is completely free of his usual braids, and really that shouldn’t make such a great difference in his appearance, but it does, somehow. He looks softer around the edges, less formal, and not just because of the aforementioned shirtlessness that Bilbo is definitely, absolutely _not_ thinking about. He looks rather tired when he meets Bilbo’s gaze again, though, tired and _worried_ , and that snaps Bilbo into a slightly higher state of sobriety.

“You can’t go out there,” Thorin repeats, more quietly this time. “It’s not safe.”

“I was just out there, Thorin,” Bilbo protests, frowning up at him, and tries his damnedest to ignore the feel of Thorin’s warm breath on his face, or how very much more potent than usual the natural smell of him is now free of clothing and leaning in so close, practically surrounding Bilbo. “There’s no one here but the company and the Master’s house servants, and, well, and the Master himself, I suppose, though I haven’t seen him in hours since he left the banquet hall.” Thorin grimaces at that, dropping his gaze to the narrow bit of floor between them rather than continuing to try to bore a hole through to the back of Bilbo’s skull with his eyes – but he still doesn’t remove his hand from the door. Really, this suspicion of the other races is reaching to truly paranoid levels at this point, especially after the warm and hearty welcome they’d received that evening. “Look, the woman who led me here must have just got it mixed up and thought this room was empty still. I’ll just—” He half turns, reaching once more for the doorknob to let himself out into the hall to seek another bed – an _unoccupied_ one – but Thorin’s voice stops him again.

“She didn’t get it wrong,” the dwarf mutters, words low and sounding like they’ve been pulled reluctantly from between clenched teeth.

“What?” Bilbo asks, turning around once more, and can only blame the drink for his atrocious manners – well, drink and nigh on half a year spent with no one but a bunch of rowdy dwarves for company.

“She wasn’t mixed up. She didn’t get it wrong,” Thorin repeats, enunciating each word firmly and refusing the meet Bilbo’s gaze.

Bilbo stares at him, at the proud brow and blue eyes – downcast now, determinedly studying the floorboards and the way Bilbo’s toes curl nervously against them – mouth in a firm, downward-sloping line. Thorin’s is a face Bilbo has come to know so very well over the last few months, that has been the bane of his existence and the stuff of his idle daydreams, as likely to give an unimpressed scowl as a small, private smile, but always, always wonderful to look upon, no matter what the situation. _Really, just **unfairly** handsome,_ that particularly drunk little voice in Bilbo’s head sighs again, and it’s right, Thorin is still quite the most handsome being Bilbo has ever laid eyes on, even as troubled and chagrined and miserable as he looks right at this moment.

Miserable… because of what the serving woman did?

The pieces click together in his mind with a gentle, alcohol-greased perfection, and Bilbo finds himself smiling, leaning a little away from the door for the first time.

“Oh, you… silly dwarf,” he mutters, some part of him reaching for something more eloquent to say as he rolls up onto his toes, something more _seductive_ , though he supposes Thorin’s already done quite enough of that for the both of them, with his hair and his skin and his lack of shirts and his tattoos and just— He has one brief moment to see Thorin’s eyes jerk up to his in surprise, but Bilbo is feeling positively Tookish tonight, or perhaps dwarvish, as brash and bold as he’s ever been, and he doesn’t waste another second before leaning across the scant space between them and planting his lips quite firmly over Thorin’s.

Thorin makes a sound in the back of his throat and a moment later Bilbo finds himself once more with his back pressed against the door, a warm wall of hard dwarven muscle at his front, hands in his hair, Thorin’s mouth working against his own. Bilbo smiles into the kiss, licking along the seam of Thorin’s lips and humming happily when they part and a wet, eager tongue meets his own. He lifts his arms to wrap around Thorin’s neck, trying to hoist himself up against the dwarf’s taller frame, pleased when a strong hand hooks around his thigh to help lift him up, Thorin’s weight pressing him more firmly back into the door. He manages to get one knee around Thorin’s hip and feels a little absurdly like he’s climbing a very handsy tree, doesn’t quite stifle his giggle at the thought of the affronted glower such an elvish comparison would no doubt earn him.

“You think this is _funny_ ,” Thorin growls, smearing kisses across Bilbo’s cheek, down to his neck, stopping to suck at the skin just below his ear. “I thought you’d be angry when you found out.”

“A-angry?” Bilbo whimpers, and manages to pull away just enough to find Thorin’s mouth with his own again, mumbling the words out against warm, pliant skin. He wiggles against the door, working his way up, and wraps his other leg around Thorin’s waist, needs to get closer, as close as they can possibly be in their current state – and that state is growing distinctly excited, if the answering hardness he feels beginning to swell against his own is any indication. “Why on earth would I be— _Mm_ — That is, the subterfuge wasn’t, wasn’t really necessary, but—”

Thorin pulls back, breathing heavily, and after a moment leans in again to rest his forehead against Bilbo’s. Bilbo looks at him cross-eyed, realizing belatedly that he is now entirely wrapped around the dwarf, arms about his shoulders and ankles crossed at the small of his back just above the waistline of his low-hanging trousers, supported between the door and Thorin’s weight against him, not one bit of him in contact with the floor anymore. “It _was_ necessary,” Thorin says, and then frowns when Bilbo gives a soft huff of laughter.

“Really now,” Bilbo cajoles, smiling up at him, “claiming there was danger out in the hallway? I mean, I appreciate the effort, I suppose, but—”

“It _is_ dangerous,” Thorin insists, his frown deepening as he pulls away a little. “If anyone saw you leaving, one of the humans, the servants—”

“Oh, please.” Bilbo shakes his head and looks up at him in what he well knows is a very inviting manner, trying to use his arms around Thorin’s neck to pull the dwarf back toward him. “No one would think any less of you if your overtures were somehow unsuccessful – not that there’s much chance of that, mind you…”

“I’m not worried about what anyone thinks of _me_ ,” Thorin retorts, really scowling now, and Bilbo wonders if a good tug on his hair might shake Thorin out of this strange argument so that they can get back to much more pleasurable pursuits. The braids would probably be good handholds for that, now that he thinks of it, pity they’ve already been brushed out for the night… “Though the Master catching me in a lie tonight could certainly prove disastrous, in more ways than one.”

“Well then, you probably shouldn’t lie to him,” Bilbo says, and decides to go ahead and give the hair pulling a try even without the braids to grip onto – all he gets is a wince and a glare for his troubles, though Thorin at least doesn’t drop him, seeming just as reluctant as Bilbo to relinquish their close proximity. “What does any of this have to do with you bribing a servant to lead me here instead of to an empty room for the night?”

“What?” Thorin asks, frowning down at him, irritation giving way to confusion now.

“The woman, the servant woman who directed me to your room,” Bilbo reminds him, and can’t help wondering if dwarven brains are perhaps more susceptible to addling with a few well-placed kisses. Certainly a line of thought worth considering the next time their dear leader is being a stubborn, pig-headed arse… “I came up from the banquet and asked her which room I was meant to stay in, and she pointed me to this one, and then she wished us _both_ a good night,” he says, and laughs, shaking his head. “I thought she must have been at the Master’s wine, like she was seeing double, but she meant— She _knew_ , she knew this was your room, and that’s why she brought me here, and really I don’t understand why you would feel the need to deny it anymore, I mean, I can appreciate a good seduction as much as the next hobbit, but—”

“I didn’t,” Thorin says, quiet words cutting off Bilbo’s rambling.

They stare at each other in silence for several seconds, and then Bilbo asks, “You didn’t…?”

“I didn’t ask her to bring you here,” Thorin answers, dropping his gaze, looking more grimfaced than ever as he speaks. “I did, however… I know why she did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: Also! I'm considering changing the rating to M, but I haven't decided yet... Any thoughts on the subject would be appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I am very sorry this chapter took longer than intended; I was chugging merrily along when I hit a brick wall of family issues. That's all thankfully sorted now, and for your patience I present a slightly longer chapter this time. The rating has indeed gone up to M and we're also looking at 5 chapters total now, or rather 4 chapters and an epilogue. Hopefully the next one will be up much quicker than this one.
> 
> Warnings for the same things as discussed in Ch1 as well as a brief mention of vomiting.

“I mean, I can appreciate a good seduction as much as the next hobbit, but—”

“I didn’t,” Thorin blurts out, and immediately wants to kick himself. Or at the very least punch himself right in the overeager, traitorous mouth.

Bilbo blinks up at him, his smile beginning to waver around the edges. “You didn’t…?”

Thorin takes a breath, steeling himself. He can still taste Bilbo on his tongue, knows precisely how soft those lips are against his own – as soft as Thorin always imagined they might be, not that he ever actually supposed, ever _hoped_ —

“I didn’t ask her to bring you here,” he says, dropping his eyes, forcing his gaze away from Bilbo’s face, his mouth – though the change in view doesn’t help at all. Bilbo is wrapped entirely around him, their bodies flush against each other from chest to groin, the hobbit’s legs tight around his waist, his growing interest obvious against Thorin’s stomach, just above where Bilbo’s warm weight is pressing down onto Thorin’s own stirring cock.

“I did, however,” he starts, trails off, tries again. Bilbo’s fingers are stroking tiny, distracting arcs against the back of his neck. “I know why she did.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“And it wasn’t so you could seduce me?”

Those fingers are playing with the hair at the nape of his neck now, twirling the long strands round and round. Thorin thinks a bit wildly that he certainly _would_ have done just that, if he’d thought there was any chance in all the world of it succeeding. Miraculously, those are not the words that come out of his mouth, though. “At dinner – during the banquet – there was— That is, something… _happened_ —”

“There were quite a lot of things happening during the banquet,” Bilbo muses, and he shrugs slightly, tightening his arms around Thorin’s shoulders and hitching himself up higher, pressing them together chest to chest. “Some things are _still_ happening down there, in fact, for the more foolhardy among us,” he grins, and the tip of his round little nose blazes a feather-light trail along the side of Thorin’s throat.

“I don’t just mean drunken revelry,” Thorin grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath, trying to block out the image of Bilbo’s face so very close, the feel of the hobbit’s breath on his skin, his mouth just inches away. It would take only a small movement, just a little tilt of Thorin’s head to catch those lips with his again…

He needs to focus. He needs to explain this.

He needs Bilbo to be safe.

Sighing, Thorin opens his eyes and finally steps back from the door, where he’s had Bilbo trapped all this time. More than a few parts of him strongly protest at the idea of relinquishing his physical contact with the hobbit, but they both need clear heads for this, and indulging any of the various tawdry fantasies that have kept Thorin awake in the night over the last few months absolutely cannot be allowed anywhere near the top of his list of priorities right now.

Except Bilbo doesn’t let go. The hobbit glances back over his shoulder briefly, as if only just remembering that he’d been trying to escape a handful of minutes ago, but his arms – and legs – remain firmly clasped around Thorin, holding himself up off the ground.

“I meant,” Thorin continues, frowning down at him. His hands are on Bilbo’s hips, not exactly supporting him – he’s light enough to barely need any effort on Thorin’s part – but not quite pushing him away yet either. “At dinner, I was sitting at the Master’s table, and he—”

Bilbo whips back around to look up at him then, brows pulling together in consternation. “What does the Master have to do with anything?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Thorin growls. His hands push a little more firmly on Bilbo’s hips as he backs up into the room, and he wonders how difficult it could possibly be to pry off a creature that feels like nothing so much as a soft, fragile little bird in his grasp. Certainly less difficult if his attempts were more than half-hearted at best… “At dinner, he said—”

Bilbo’s gaze has sharpened, his eyes narrowing. “Did you lie to him about something?” he suddenly demands.

“I— What?” Thorin takes another reflexive step back, blinking down at the hobbit in astonishment.

“Earlier! Earlier you said something about how terrible it would be if the Master were to catch you in a lie!” Bilbo cries, frowning up at him. “I thought you were just— I don’t know, just _talking_ , but— Thorin, I shouldn’t have to tell you how delicate the situation is here, I mean the man very nearly threw you all in prison just hours ago!”

“He’d have thrown _you_ in prison as well, you know,” Thorin snaps back as he takes another step and tries a little harder to push the hobbit’s pelvis away from his own. Of course he knows how very tenuous their station is – except that another thought occurs to him then, and it’s actually rather lucky that the backs of his legs make contact with the edge of the bed in the next moment, because otherwise the sudden wave of nausea that sweeps through him might well have landed him flat on his arse on the floor.

He sits down heavily, no longer trying to push Bilbo away, more unwilling now than ever to let go.

If the company had been imprisoned and prevented from continuing on to the mountain, if the townspeople and the Master hadn’t been convinced by their promises of shared wealth and prosperity… Bilbo wouldn’t have been in the jail with them. He’d have been taken to the Master’s house, and Thorin would have been utterly powerless to prevent anything that might have happened to him there.

He can only thank Mahal – or perhaps Lady Yavanna – for clever, silver-tongued burglars who are willing to vouch for him to complete strangers.

“They wouldn’t have caught me,” Bilbo scoffs, shaking his head, seemingly unaware of the dark turn Thorin’s thoughts have taken. Distantly, Thorin feels small fingers dragging through his hair, almost petting him, and finds that his own hand has made itself at home at the small of the hobbit’s back beneath his jacket, his thumb drawing circles against the thin fabric of Bilbo’s shirt. “I gave Thranduil and all his elves the slip,” he continues, and grins impishly up at Thorin, “you really think a bunch of slow humans are going to give me much trouble?”

“Perhaps not,” Thorin allows, breath catching as Bilbo repositions himself on his lap, his legs still wrapped firmly around Thorin’s waist. His prick gives a dull throb at the movement, trapped as it is within his trousers and underneath Bilbo’s warm, solid weight, barely deterred at all by the somber contents of his thoughts. “Still not a risk I would care to take,” he grits out as Bilbo shifts again, apparently trying to get comfortable, making Thorin’s fingers flex against his back and – no, he really can’t claim that that’s his hip anymore, not with that amount of plush softness under his palm. His grip tightens automatically and Bilbo hums approvingly, rocking more firmly against him.

“Well then you probably shouldn’t lie to him,” Bilbo retorts, and it takes Thorin a few seconds to remember what he’s talking about, especially when the hobbit pauses to shrug out of his blue coat, deft fingers plucking at the belt about his middle and then letting the heavy garment fall to the floor behind him. Thorin swallows thickly as he leans close once more, one small hand returning to the dwarf’s hair while the other migrates down to begin gently stroking down his chest.

He squeezes his eyes shut, grunting out, “It was necessary,” as Bilbo rolls his hips again and leans in even closer, peering at his hand as it moves across Thorin’s chest, fingers dragging slowly through the hair there – tracing along the lines of his tattoos, Thorin realizes after a moment. He draws in a shuddering breath, trying to reorder his thoughts, to regain control of the conversation, and instead finds himself opening his eyes to the top of Bilbo’s curly head, the smell of him warm and musky and clean, neither of them stinking of fish and lake water any longer, thank Durin, now that they’ve all finally had the opportunity to bathe, along with gorging themselves on food and drink.

The image of Bilbo lounging in a wide pool of bubbling hot water rises all too readily to Thorin’s mind, his plump cheeks flushed from the heat and nude form barely visible through the shimmer of the steam, smiling invitingly as he reaches a hand out, stretching expansively against the chiseled stone seat of the bath, the minerals of the hot springs beneath Erebor softening his skin and perfuming his hair, keeping him in all the comfort and luxury the Lord Consort deserves…

“What could possibly necessitate—” Bilbo is saying, and he lifts his gaze just as Thorin leans forward, about to bury his face in those soft, honey-brown curls. They end up nose-to-nose, and all it would take is a little more forward motion, he just has to let his current momentum continue to carry him onward and he could taste those lips again, could dip into the warm sweetness of Bilbo’s mouth once more…

Bilbo smiles, gaze flicking between Thorin’s eyes and his mouth, and he’s apparently had the same thought as he begins to close the distance between them himself.

“I told him we were married,” Thorin’s mouth says then.

Bilbo freezes, blinking wide eyes up at him, barely a breath away, and oh, Thorin fully intends to hit himself across the mouth with the first heavy, blunt object he lays hands on. “You… You _what?!_ ” Bilbo squawks, palms pressing flat against Thorin’s chest and pushing himself back a few inches.

Thorin sighs, letting his eyes fall shut. “I told him—”

“I _heard_ you!” Bilbo’s hands ball into little fists against his chest, pulling a bit at his chest hair. Thorin looks down at him with a slight wince. “What could _possibly_ lead you to… to…”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“Really!”

“He was… looking at you, _watching_ you, during dinner,” he grits out, and Bilbo looks up to fix him with a narrow glare.

“So because he _looked_ at me?!”

Curse him, curse him, _curse him_ , him and his foolish, floundering, fully autonomous mouth. “He also… said some things,” Thorin adds through clenched teeth, not meeting the hobbit’s gaze.

Bilbo’s fists beat against his chest, once, in tandem, barely even a strike at all. Thorin gets the distinct impression that, were he standing, he’d have stamped his foot against the floor. “ _What_ things?” he demands.

He _could_ tell him – the words spring to Thorin’s mind, the Master’s voice slick and oily and absolutely unforgettable, making Thorin’s stomach turn and his skin crawl, the look on his face dark and eager and _predatory_ as he’d watched Bilbo – but he holds them back, looks away, resisting the urge to pull the hobbit closer against him. “Unsavory things,” he spits at last, and silently reiterates his wish of hours before to never have to reveal the full extent of the situation to Bilbo, to at least spare him that terror.

Bilbo is silent for a long moment, mouth pinched up angrily as he stares, unseeing, at his hands on Thorin’s chest. “I am going to say this _once_ ,” he says then, his voice low and just a touch dangerous, “and hopefully just once is enough to get it through your thick, boulder of a dwarven skull, because I would very much like to get back to you undressing me sometime in the near future.” Thorin’s gaze snaps back to Bilbo’s face, eyes blinking wide, but the hobbit presses on without pause, without seeming to acknowledge his surprise, “I am perfectly capable of turning down any unwanted offers on my own, and of choosing my own partners.” He shifts on Thorin’s lap once more, grinding his still very apparent erection against Thorin’s own hardness, adding, “As should be rather obvious to you.”

“I didn’t get the sense that your _choice_ would play much, if any, of a role in the Master’s plans,” Thorin snaps in return, pleasure and frustration spiraling through him in equal measure at the hobbit’s movements – and then he has to squeeze his eyes closed in dismay, realizing what he’s just said. So much for sparing Bilbo from that knowledge.

Bilbo stills, and when Thorin looks at him again, his brows are furrowed together, mouth frowning and opened to speak, though no sound comes forth for several seconds. His previous flush has fled, leaving him looking pale and drawn.

He looks terribly small all of a sudden – Thorin has often marveled at how little the hobbit is, even just compared to the dwarves around him, how fragile and soft and tender he appears. But their burglar also has a personality that far exceeds his physical form, his quick wit and sharp tongue easily bringing the company to heel when he’s got a clever idea in his head. As he’s found his voice amongst them, it has grown easy to forget how very tiny he really is.

But this is the world of _men_ , of _humans_. Even Thorin sometimes feels small, or at least short, in their unnatural, towering midst. He can only imagine how a hobbit might feel surrounded by them, how diminutive, overwhelmed… how defenseless.

“I won’t let him—” Thorin starts to tell him, but Bilbo is finally speaking once more.

“That’s why… why you didn’t want me to leave,” the hobbit says, his voice weak and distant, and Thorin stops. Bilbo doesn’t look up at him, eyes fixed on his hands against Thorin’s chest. “The danger, if I went out into the hallway again… You weren’t making that up.”

Thorin swallows thickly. “No. I wasn’t.”

“And the servant woman… That’s why she brought me here, because of what you said at dinner… She thought… They all think…”

“Yes,” Thorin admits, grimacing. He’d realized what must have happened the moment Bilbo had stepped through the door, how the rumor must have spread throughout the entire house – and how any one of the servants could report back to their Master should they see Bilbo leaving once more to seek his bed elsewhere, report not only Thorin’s lie, but Bilbo’s solitude, that he was alone and defenseless and totally unaware of the threat, the danger he was in… He shakes his head and says, “It doesn’t matter – we’ll be free of this place in the morning when we leave for the mountain, and then we’ll never have to deal with the Master or his ilk again—”

He’s cut off when Bilbo suddenly gives a violent start, and then the hobbit is scrambling off of Thorin’s lap, his face flaming red once more and his entire form visibly trembling as he stutters out, “Oh, oh my— I’ve been terribly forward— I thought— When that woman brought me to your room, I thought— I thought that you— you—”

“Peace, burglar,” Thorin says, shaking his head again, hands reaching toward the hobbit to calm him, hold him, soothe him – but he curls them into fists and lets them drop to rest on his thighs when Bilbo skitters back a few more inches, out of Thorin’s reach.

“I suppose I don’t have any choice but to stay here tonight,” Bilbo laughs in a high, reedy voice, the words coming out strangled and desperate. He looks like nothing so much as a frightened rabbit in that moment, ready to bolt at the slightest movement from Thorin, though he has nowhere to run to. “I-I don’t want to impose…”

Thorin shakes his head, frustrated. “You are not _imposing_ on me,” he insists, but when he looks at the hobbit once more, he can see the doubt in his gaze, the shame and embarrassment at his earlier actions. Quieter, Thorin adds, “You’ve done nothing I wasn’t happy to reciprocate.”

He watches Bilbo’s throat bob as he swallows, and then he finally looks up, meeting Thorin’s gaze hesitantly. Whatever he finds there must satisfy something in him, because the hobbit purses his lips, give a tiny, firm nod, and then, very slowly, he begins to creep back towards Thorin. He climbs up to sit on the edge of the bed beside him, not quite touching, and Thorin finds himself mourning the loss of his weight and warmth.

They sit in silence for several long seconds, nothing but the crackle of the fire on the hearth and their shared breathing sounding in the room, and then Bilbo speaks again. “You’re not… worried?” he asks quietly, glancing over at Thorin. “About the others, I mean?”

Thorin feels his brows draw together as he frowns at the hobbit in confusion. “About them learning of what I told the Master? They would understand, given the circumstances, I’m sure,” he says, but Bilbo is shaking his head.

“No, I mean…” He inhales deeply, looking down at his hands, clasped in his lap. “I mean, if the Master can’t have his… his _original target_ ,” he says, and Thorin grimaces, his fists tightening where they rest on his knees as his stomach twists and clenches, “then wouldn’t he, possibly, want to… to _try_ with one of the others?” Bilbo asks, hazel eyes wide with worry when he looks up at Thorin once more.

 _Ah_. Their little burglar, too clever by half, thinking of everything. Thorin sighs, looking away. He’d wanted so much to be able to keep this from Bilbo, to protect him from all of this, the knowledge of the situation as well as the actual danger. He’d held out hope that this detail might at least still be left unspoken, even after he’d had to reveal the rest, but he can see no other way forward, no means of assuaging the hobbit’s concern for his companions without further emphasizing the danger to himself.

“I’m afraid dwarven features,” Thorin says heavily, running a hand over his beard, shorn shamefully close, yes, but still undeniably _there_ , “do not call to the Master’s… particular tastes…” Even without their beards, Thorin suspects that they would not draw the eye of one such as the Master of Laketown, with their broad and battle-hardened forms, their tattoos and hairy skin. No, there is nothing soft about any of the dwarves of his company, even the youngest among them, nothing fresh and pliant and innocent, not like what he’d thought of Bilbo, nothing that would whet the appetite of that foul man.

Bilbo is frowning at him in confusion when Thorin glances over at him, but he sees the moment when understanding dawns, the hobbit’s eyes widening in horror as the color drains completely from his face, leaving him wan and faintly greenish in tone. “I… I think I’m going to be ill,” he whimpers, and Thorin hastens to fetch the empty chamber pot from the foot of the bed, sparing only a single derisive thought for humans and their lack of proper plumbing – the bargeman’s toilet had emptied directly into the lake, for Mahal’s sake, the town’s main source of food and income!

Bilbo heaves a few times and spits bile into the pot as Thorin holds it for him, his other hand smoothing the hobbit’s hair back from his forehead, but after a few minutes of simply hunching forward and quivering over the copper vessel, he finally shakes his head and pushes it away without actually retching. Thorin takes the chamber pot back to its place under the end of the bed, and when he returns to sit beside Bilbo once again, the hobbit sags against him, mumbling gratefully and burrowing closer when Thorin wraps an arm around his slim shoulders. He’s still shaking, still pale with horror, and Thorin wishes that he could again enfold him in his embrace, chase away the fear and pain in his expression with every means available to him – but amorous touches are probably the very last thing Bilbo wants or needs right now, after all that he’s just learned.

“I’ve heard of such things,” Bilbo murmurs, his quiet voice surprising Thorin and drawing him out of his thoughts. “Just rumors, really, from hobbits who venture out of the Shire, out to Bree… Some of the humans there, the ones who pass through… They don’t ever enter the Shire, thank the Green Lady,” he says with a shudder, and when Thorin pulls him a little tighter against him, Bilbo’s arms go around the dwarf’s waist in kind. “But I’ve heard tell of… of the things they’ll say, comments in the tavern, even, even _propositioning_ Shirefolk who are there on business. But I’ve never, never seen it _myself_ , and certainly not… not…” Bilbo’s breathing hitches, and he shakes his head, his hair brushing Thorin’s collarbone as he leans more heavily into his side.

“I won’t let him touch you,” Thorin breathes, pressing the fervent words into the top of the hobbit’s head, Bilbo’s curls soft and warm against his lips and nose. “I won’t let him hurt you. Him or anyone else.”

“I know,” Bilbo answers and tucks his head more securely under Thorin’s chin. They sit quietly for several long minutes, the dancing light from the fireplace gradually beginning to dim as they simply breathe together. After some time, he feels Bilbo draw in breath as though to speak, but whatever he was going to say next is swallowed up completely by the jaw-splitting yawn that quakes through him the next moment.

Thorin allows himself a quiet chuckle, pressing a firm kiss to the top of Bilbo’s head before gathering the hobbit up in his arms once more, though this time only to help him into bed. “Sleep,” he rumbles. “You need your rest if we’re to climb a mountain tomorrow.”

Bilbo harrumphs softly, mumbling something rude about _‘bloody mountains’_ as he crawls across the width of the bed to take the right side, nearest the window – leaving Thorin between him and the door, a guard position Thorin is perfectly content to assume. The hobbit burrows himself under the blankets, lying back, but then suddenly jumps and begins squirming about under the bed linens.

Just as Thorin is about to ask if something is wrong, Bilbo stops his wriggling and, a moment later, tosses his trousers out onto the floor with a triumphant cry.

Thorin stares at him.

Bilbo looks back at him defiantly, snuggling back down into the pillow under his head, still in his shirt – in nothing but his shirt and smallclothes now, if Thorin’s not mistaken. “This is the first time I’ve been able to sleep in a proper bed in _months_ ,” the hobbit says. “I am not ruining it by sleeping in my clothes as well.”

Slowly, Thorin nods and moves to get under the covers himself.

“Besides,” Bilbo adds, mumbling into the pillow, and Thorin isn’t entirely sure if he’s meant to hear the words or not, “it’s only fair, when you’re all, all, like _that_.”

Thorin pauses, glancing down at himself, perplexed – chest and feet bare, hair unbraided and combed, wearing only comfortable trousers to sleep in, just as he does whenever not traversing the wilds, whenever he has the luxury and privacy to relax a little. He’s perhaps not properly dressed to appear in public, but then Bilbo had come to _his_ room when he’d been readying himself for bed. His erection has all but subsided, he can’t help noticing as well, unsurprisingly, between the dark, unpleasant turn their conversation had taken and the loss of the one who had aroused it in the first place. He grimaces, wondering as he lies down at the edge of the mattress if his apparent lack of interest was what Bilbo had meant by _‘that’_ – but the hobbit has already rolled over to face the window when Thorin looks over at him again, shoulder hunched up around his face and the tip of one pointed ear visible through his curls, shining bright crimson in the dim light.

He lets out a long breath and closes his eyes against the lingering light of the fire, telling himself to take his own advice: rest, rest up for tomorrow, for the mountain, and the door, and all that lies beyond it.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there with his eyes closed, tense and sleepless, but the fire is burning low when Bilbo speaks again, breaking the silence between them. “Without even thinking about it,” the hobbit murmurs, and Thorin doesn’t have to look to hear the small smile in his voice, “you told people we were married. That was the first thing you thought of.”

Thorin can only sigh and nod; there is no way he can deny the claim, not after everything that has happened this evening. He knows full well just how much it reveals of his own feelings and desires, things he has pushed away and refused to dwell on in the clear light of day, but that have infiltrated his dreams and imaginings over the past months regardless. He hasn’t dared give the thoughts credence, hasn’t dared actually consider where they might lead or what might possibly ever, some day, come of them. What can he offer Bilbo, after all? He has neither beauty nor riches to recommend him, and though his title might once have attracted many a prospective match in his youth, hobbits have no royalty, nor any awe of them, crownless or otherwise. He has nothing to offer, nothing unless – until – they reclaim the mountain and all that lies within.

Even then, Bilbo will have a host of other newly-wealthy dwarves to choose from if he so desires, each far more pleasing to the eye and far merrier company than Thorin can ever hope to be. And that only if the hobbit doesn’t decide to turn right back around and return to his Shire the moment his contract is fulfilled.

He jumps at the touch on his arm, surprised to find that Bilbo has scooted back across the width of the bed and is now trying to worm his way under Thorin’s arm. Wide-eyed, he lifts his arm, and Bilbo gives a happy sigh as he settles against Thorin’s side, resting his head on the dwarf’s shoulder. He’s quiet, and Thorin sits tensely for a while, staring at the ceiling and wondering at the likelihood that tonight has been a mere dream, one that he will be cruelly woken from in moments. Thorin Oakenshield does not get to keep the things that he desires; that has been all but proven as law in his lifetime. But Bilbo is warm and solid beside him, and after a few minutes his small hand comes up to gently run over Thorin’s chest again, delicate little fingers following the lines and knots of his tattoos, tracing over pale scar tissue, eventually just petting in long, slow strokes before finally lying still atop Thorin’s stomach.

Thorin’s breathing has grown deep and even under the hobbit’s touch, and some part of him has finally given in and admitted that, even if this is but a dream, there is little harm in enjoying it while it lasts. He is just beginning to drop off to sleep, lulled into relaxation by the warm softness of the smaller body at his side, when Bilbo quietly asks, “What would you have said if it had been one of the others he was interested in?”

Thorin frowns, rousing himself, and opens his mouth to respond, but then pauses, the answer unclear.

If it had been any of the other members of the company? He’d have been just as furious, of course, furious and disgusted and determined to protect them… They are his kin, nearly all of them, some more closely related than others, and all are his loyal followers, his to lead and to protect. That’s what he’d have said. His nephews and young Ori might have been claimed as his wards, the others as family or close friends in one way or another – a clear warning to any who might mean them harm.

And… he’d have spoken of each of their accomplishments on the battlefield. Or those of their nearest kin, at least: Ori with his brothers to protect him; the Urs as a single, deadly unit; Balin and Dwalin and Óin and Glóin all seasoned warriors, as much or even more so than Thorin himself.

He wouldn’t have truly feared for a single one of them.

Some of these thoughts must show on his face, because when he glances at Bilbo again, the hobbit is pursing his lips around a small, knowing smile. “I thought so,” he whispers, and reaches up to bury his fingers in the hair along Thorin’s jaw and pull him down into a slow, molten kiss.

“Bilbo—” he gasps when they finally break apart, and the hobbit just nods, smiling a little ruefully now.

“I know. Sleep.”

Thorin squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing hard, and finally nods in response, silently telling his racing heart to calm itself. He does, however, allow himself to roll onto his side, wrapping both arms securely around the hobbit and briefly pressing their foreheads together before relaxing back against the pillow once more.

He can feel Bilbo’s smile against his collarbone, and the hobbit’s arm snakes around his waist as well, fingers stroking against his back a few times before finally lying still. “Goodnight, Thorin,” he whispers.

Thorin presses his lips to Bilbo’s hair one more time and murmurs, “Goodnight, ghivashel.”


End file.
